Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Billionaire Alpha's Revenge: Kabanata 231 - Kabanata 240

The air in the penthouse of the Sterling Tower didn't smell like ozone or expensive cologne anymore. It smelled like a slaughterhouse that had been left in the sun for a week.Valerius stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the ruined city of New York. His reflection in the glass was… wrong. His jawline was too wide, his shoulders hunched with new, grotesque muscle mass that twitched under his bespoke suit."The Council is impatient, Valerius," the hologram flickered in the center of the room. It was the Ambassador—a faceless, silver figure projected from a floating drone. "You promised us a King. You have given us a street brawl.""The Mongrel is resilient," Valerius growled. His voice had a wet, gurgling quality to it now, like his throat was lined with mucus. He poured himself a glass of dark red liquid. It wasn't wine. It was highly oxygenated, modified hemoglobin. "But resilience has a breaking point.""Your 'Wolf Pack' is failin

The impact of two apex predators colliding in mid-air didn't just break bones; it broke architecture.Jack Sterling was thrown backward, crashing through what remained of the penthouse skylight. He slammed into the floor of the 90th-level Executive Lounge, skidding across expensive Italian marble that was now slick with a layer of translucent, breathing slime.He gasped, rolling onto his knees. His tactical vest was shredded. His ribs felt like a bag of gravel. Above him, through the jagged hole in the ceiling, the red sky churned, and Valerius’s laughter boomed like thunder rolling down a valley."Is that it?" Valerius’s voice echoed, amplified by the building itself. "I expected a challenge, Jack. Not a crash test dummy."Jack spat a mouthful of blood onto the marble. It sizzled on the slime."Ben," Jack rasped into his comms. "Tell me you're in.""I'm in!" Ben’s voice was a high-pitched squeak. He was huddled behind an overturned ma

The light that erupted from Valerius’s chest wasn't the clean, white light of salvation. It was the dirty, sputtering incandescence of a biological reactor going critical. It smelled like burning hair and ionized ozone, a stench that coated the back of the throat like warm grease.Jack Sterling rolled across the wet concrete of the roof, his body a collection of screaming nerve endings. He slammed into the base of a shattered ventilation unit, gasping for air that felt too thin, too hot. His left arm, the Obsidian Hand, was dead weight—a black, cracked stone attached to his shoulder, devoid of the violet pulse that usually defined his power."He's going to blow," Jack wheezed, shielding his eyes. "Ben... tell me you're seeing this.""I'm seeing it!" Ben’s voice crackled in his earpiece, shrill with panic. "Energy spikes are off the chart! He's not just overloading; he's going supernova! The thermal output is melting the sensors on the 90th floor!"

The silence on the roof of the Sterling Tower didn't last. It was broken not by a roar, but by a hum—a low, discordant vibration that seemed to emanate from the very air itself.High above the bleeding city, the holographic projection of the Fenrir Council flickered. It wasn't a single face. It was a triumvirate of shadows, three figures seated at a high table, their features obscured by digital static. They looked less like gods and more like a board of directors deciding to liquidate a failing subsidiary."The experiment in Sector 7 is concluded," the central figure announced. The voice was synthesized, stripped of all humanity, sounding like grinding stones. "Subject Valerius has failed to achieve stability. The biological contagion risk is now... unacceptable."Jack Sterling tried to stand, but his legs felt like they were made of wet sand. He leaned against a blackened ventilation duct, clutching his ruined right hand."They're not talking about a cure

The silence in the cockpit of the Aurora wasn't the peaceful kind. It was the heavy, pressurized silence of a coffin traveling at Mach 3.Ben Carter sat in the pilot’s seat, his knuckles white as he gripped the flight stick. He looked like a man trying to solve a calculus equation while riding a rollercoaster that was on fire."We are crossing the 80th parallel," Ben’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying to sound more like a cool action-movie pilot and less like an IT guy who wanted his mom. "External temperature is minus sixty. Internal temperature is... comfortable, thanks to the nuclear heater. But my stress levels are critical."Jack Sterling sat in the co-pilot seat, or rather, he slumped in it. His left arm—the one that used to be the Obsidian Hand—was a mess of charred flesh and shattered casing, wrapped hastily in medical gauze that was already seeping red. He stared out the reinforced canopy.The sky wasn't black anymore.